Aperture
by WinJennster
Summary: Dean. Such an unassuming, everyman name. A name that referenced blue collars and grease under nails, a mechanic, or a handyman, a regular, ordinary man. But there was nothing ordinary about this man. He was beautiful, in ways Cas's brain couldn't even begin to comprehend. He'd met him in a coffee shop.


He honestly hadn't expected the guy to show, but here he was, looking around the studio, touching everything, investigating all the hidden spaces. The man was just as appealing as the first time he'd seen him, long and lean, legs slightly bowed, a few days stubble, strong jaw, and sparkling green eyes.

He shrugged out of the olive denim jacket he was wearing, revealing freckled forearms and a tight black tee. Turning, he grinned with perfectly aligned, pure white teeth.

"Where d'you want me?" he asked cockily.

"Where you are is fine," Cas replied, adjusting the aperture on his camera. "I'm basically just going to shoot you doing whatever you please. The series is about bodies in motion."

"Ok. You want me to put my jacket back on?"

"No. Just move around the space. Pretend the camera doesn't exist."

"Right. Gotcha."

Cas starting snapping off shots as the man moved into the area of his studio he'd set up for this shoot. Everything in the space was white - a ladder-back chair, a brass bedstead, a bureau, a chest at the foot of the bed, the nightstands, the lamp, the gauzy curtains covering the window, even the bedding - everything had either been purchased white or painted.

The man was the only color in the space.

He shifted, raised his arms over his head and yawned.

Dragging fingers along the footboard, he turned and looked back. "This ok?" he asked softly.

"Yes, it's perfect." _You're perfect_.

Dean. Such an unassuming, everyman name. A name that referenced blue collars and grease under nails, a mechanic, or a handyman, a regular, ordinary man.

But there was nothing ordinary about this man.

He was beautiful, in ways Cas's brain couldn't even begin to comprehend. He'd met him in a coffee shop.

"_Take a picture, it'll last longer," he'd said, but a smile graced those plump pink lips._

"_I'd like to," Castiel had blurted out. He'd received a raised eyebrow. "I'm a photographer," Castiel stumbled, "I'm not trying to be inappropriate." He offered his card and a handshake. "Castiel Novak."_

_Dean had looked over the card and given him another brilliant smile. "Dean Winchester."_

They'd agreed to a time and now here he was, moving around his studio, lithe grace and liquid movements, sitting still in the chair for a moment, leaning down and tugging on his boot laces.

"Want me to take 'em off?"

"Yes, that would be good." He climbed onto the bed, shooting Dean from his back. Kneeling on the bed, he angled his camera to catch Dean's back as he leaned down to unlace his boots.

He got off the bed and moved around, crouching at Dean's feet to take close up shots of his work roughened hands pulling the boots off, calloused fingers slipping white socks down his ankles and off.

Dean stood, stretching his arms over his head. He turned back towards Castiel, slowly, angling his body as he moved, and Castiel snapped picture after picture.

"_I'm familiar with your work," he'd said that day in the coffee shop. "It's impressive. You capture a lot of emotion in your photographs."_

_Castiel's cheeks had flamed, something that didn't happen often. "Thank you," he'd murmured, looking up at pools of verdigris set behind unfairly long lashes._

Dean's fingers toyed with the fly of his jeans, and he looked at Castiel, eyebrow raised in silent question.

"You can get as undressed as you're comfortable with," Cas told him.

Nodding, his fingers pried the button from the denim. Button-fly, Castiel realized, mouth going desert-dry in an instant.

Yes, he was attracted to Dean. But that wasn't why he had invited him here. He had been telling the truth when he said he wanted to photograph Dean.

But he couldn't help but admire the curves and angles of his legs as he slid the denim over his hips and down his thighs. Pulling them off all the way, Dean carelessly tossed them aside and crawled across the bed on his hands and knees. The camera captured every movement.

"_Why me? I'm nothing special," Dean had said, pulling on the hem of his shirt self-consciously._

"_Actually, you're perfect. Trust me. Anyway," Cas had said, writing on the back of the business card, "Saturday at noon if you have time. At this address. I'll pay you $500."_

"_Sounds good, Cas. Maybe I'll show."_

Dean rolled onto his back, letting his head loll off the bed, staring at Castiel from his upside-down position.

"You should remove all your clothing," Cas said, pulling in close, angling the camera to catch shots of Dean's perfect face.

He grinned lazily. "Mmm, what happened to 'take off as much as you're comfortable with'?"

"You'll be comfortable. You're an exhibitionist. I can tell. You're so turned on now you can hardly breathe. You _want_ to be naked. You _need_ it. You need to feel the cotton of those sheets against your skin. And you need me, here, capturing every angle, every movement of your skin and muscles, every flicker in your eyes."

Dean was starting to sweat, as he rolled back onto his belly. "Pretty sure of yourself," he murmured, pushing up, arms straight.

Cas continued moving around the bed, snapping pictures from a hundred different angles, as Dean moved to kneel on the bed, fingers playing with the hem of the black tee. There was a prominent bulge in his grey cotton boxers, and a glorious flush on his cheeks. He tugged the shirt off, tossing it off the bed, and the camera caught every move.

He stretched like a cat, hands and knees on the bed, beautiful back arched and head tucked.

"Lay down," Cas breathed.

Dean laid down on his belly, rolling slightly onto his side, green eyes darkened with arousal. His hand slid down his chest as he rolled the rest of the way onto his back. Fingers brushed along the elastic band of his boxers.

Castiel was still snapping pictures; he'd probably taken about a thousand pictures of Dean at that point. He was such a perfect subject, so perfectly formed, and Cas wanted him. He wanted to pull those boxers off himself, swallow him down, tease and torment him until Dean was screaming his name.

Professional. He was a professional. And this wasn't the first time he'd photographed a nude body.

And that's what Dean was, completely naked, stretched out on the bed, every inch of his smooth skin freckled and tan, begging for Cas's tongue and fingers.

Dean was hard, his penis curving upwards towards his belly. There was no shame in his stare, as his eyes met Cas's. No teasing, no judgment; and that was a gift, since Cas was now kneeling over him on the bed, straddling his knees as he snapped pictures of Dean, head pillowed on arms folded under his head. No doubt, Dean could tell how turned on he was at this point, seeing as how his erection was pushing painfully against the zipper of his jeans.

Sitting up, Dean was now face to face with Cas, and gentle hands took the camera from his grasp, setting it aside carefully, then those same hands were sliding under his shirt, finding the jut of his hipbones.

"I think you've taken enough pictures, don't you?" Dean asked, voice like gravel dipped in whiskey.

His fingertips dipped into the waistband of Cas's jeans, as those ridiculous green eyes, almost black with lust and arousal, gazed up at him.

He tipped his head down towards Dean's, taking his first taste of those perfect, perfect lips.

"Yes. I've got more than enough to work with."


End file.
